The tables were covered in death. Worn fingers stroked the cool, sleek metallic instruments, silently reassuring over the surrounding babble of talk, laughter and movement.
Oksana was at a fair.
Brightly coloured tents and stalls festooned with every variety of toy, junk food and useless souvenir were crammed together as tightly as possible, atop a very small hill. It was an outlandish setting, for an unusual festival celebrating everything strange and odd. She stood relaxed and calm, a swathe of shadow cutting across her face, keeping her wares and stall hidden but for a tantalizing corner that shone in the light.
She was a heavy set woman, but her dextrous fingers and nimble movements as she diligently checked her weapons were surprisingly graceful. She stepped into the small path of light afforded her, only for a moment, but it was enough; dark brown hair had glinted golden, appraising brown eyes had suggested come hither, the tinkling chime of silver bangles had enticed. Oksana was an old hand at this, and she always did well.
Sure enough, a moment later a small nervous looking man – smelling vaguely of onions and grease –sidled into her vision. His small hand flashed toward a tiny, easily concealable gun, but she was too quick; her meaty hand easily enveloped his and the man grunted as he was slammed up against the table front, close to her massive bosom. Her small, even white teeth showed as she smiled in a perfunctory manner, ‘That will cost you,’ she said.
He bobbed his head, almost oozing contrition. ‘Of course, madam, of course,’ he said, hand burrowing into his thrifty looking jacket. ‘Would this be of service?’ Squirming violently in his hand was an outraged rat, gold eyes glaring.
Without word, she grasped it, throwing it into an open cage that sat on a stool behind, almost as if she had anticipated just such a thing occurring. The man took the gun, hand multicoloured red and white from the pressure of the matron’s grasp, and darted back into the milling crowds.
She followed him with her eyes for a moment, but soon lost interest. The exotic crowd of midgets, elegantly suited gentlemen, girls, women and hags accosted her attention momentarily, before losing it. The people that stuck out were the normal ones; the average family, confused Englishman, and bewildered farm boy from the surrounding countryside. All of which, in their turn, lost her interest as well.
Oksana had almost resigned herself to finding nothing when something in the corner began to sparkle. There, wedged between two bigger, well-to-do tents was a small wooden stall. She frowned. Never before had she seen such a stall, threadbare and poor, yes there were plenty of those, but one which sold only one item were a rare sight indeed. Narrowing her gaze against the light, she gasped as she realised what it was being sold: a Matryoshka doll.
It was beautiful.
Her large, mitten like hands shook as she considered it. There was only one left of that design, crafted by the loving hands of a master. All the other originals, she had in her possession, only this lone piece eluded her. Only that one, seemingly innocuous piece could restore her Mica. A tall man crossed her path, blocking her vision. It suddenly dawned on her then, that she was in danger of losing it, and so soon after having found it. She couldn’t take it by force, as she was accustomed, there were rules in place even the Ox had to abide. What she needed then, was a distraction. She turned around, grimly determined as she set about creating a Molotov cocktail.
Once it was ready, lighter at hand, she whispered a little ditty, ‘Come little birdie, come real quick, Mother needs to use a dirty trick.’
A flutter, a sharp caw, and a flash later saw a young boy pop up beside her, grinning. ‘What can I do you for?’ he said.
‘You know very well what I need,’ she said. ‘Just do it and you’ll be paid for your services.’
He grimaced, not liking the way that was phrased but he would do it, she knew. Moments later, boy and lit bottle were gone. Someone yelled, people screamed, and a small explosion tore through the fair. Pandemonium erupted all around her as Oksana dashed through the crowds, unable to repress a grin at the boy’s handiwork; she had to admit, Loki’s children did good work. Clashing against her leg painfully, she brought along her bartering chip, as she charged toward her prize.
The old man working the stall glanced up, surprised as the bulky form came to a huffing rest in front of him. ‘Can I help you?’ he said.
‘I wish to purchase your ware,’ Oksana said with remarkable calm.
‘And what do you offer?’ he replied, smiling slightly. ‘This is after all a precious piece.’
Before he had even finished the sentence, she thrust the golden eyed rat at him. His eyes widened and he wheezed slightly. ‘Do you know what that is?’ he whispered.
‘Of course, now do you wish to trade or not?’
He scrabbled frantically, all but throwing it at her, and snatched the cage away. Likewise jubilant, she cradled the warm, ever so slightly pulsing doll to her chest. This place was no longer safe to be in, she knew, and she had to leave. With every moment, her daughter was in mortal danger, for Oksana remembered well the words of the spiteful witch,
‘Ware you recover your hearts most burning desire, for death lies just around the corner.’
And given the war that was erupting around her, she knew the words to be true. But then she had little to fear. Death was, after all, a trade and she was a master.
***
977 words.
